Racing to Armageddon

   The room was cold and damp and bleak and bare. Vlasenin had been in there for what seemed like hours – ever since he had woken to find himself dragged from the boot of a car through a doorway and down a flight of steps to his new quarters.

   Without his coat or cap the plain Army uniform had long since given up the fight to keep any of the chill out. He hugged himself, blew freezing breath on frozen knuckles, jumped up and paced around for the fiftieth time, walking around the metal and canvas chair by the metal table, circuiting all four walls before collapsing on the filthy mattress that covered the metal and wire-spring bed.

   He felt as though he would freeze to death, but he knew they wouldn't let that happen. They had plenty of other things to do to him yet and once all that began he would look back on this period as fondly as a childhood holiday. He gave a shiver that was more than the cold.

   So close, damn it. He had known his superiors were getting suspicious of his continuing lack of results, knew that this was the moment when action had to be taken. So he had contacted the Tsarists. The first directly treasonable action of his life, but one which he knew would put him beyond the pale at a stroke.

   Everyone knew the Whites were still active, some inside Russia, others scattered to the four corners of Europe. The names of the contacts, the locations of the dead letter drops, the code words which could gain you an audience... they were not hard to reach. But in reaching for them you put your head on the block – and quite a few other parts of your anatomy.

   He smiled grimly despite himself. No other organisation was hunted quite so fiercely by the NKVD. That was why he had chosen a small group, near to where he worked, with few contacts in the wider reaches of the underground. They had fallen over themselves to help, and so had the British. The plan was arranged quickly – too quickly. He knew that now. But they had insisted that even a minute longer than necessary spent in Russia could be fatal. So he had let himself be swayed. To what avail. He had been taken. That meant the network was blown. But was there anyone left to retrieve the briefcase?